


Raging Winds

by moo_shu



Series: Moth To A Flame [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Druids, Gen, Merlin's childhood is significantly different than the show, Merlin's pov, Other, Pre-Canon, Some backstory that will become relevant eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27586757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moo_shu/pseuds/moo_shu
Summary: “My name isn’t Emrys,” he manages to get out, eyeing the group of adults warily, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” With that, he pushes away from the tree and attempts to walk through them.Can be read as a standalone, or as part of the series.
Series: Moth To A Flame [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990852
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	Raging Winds

Growing up, Merlin and his mother never stay in one place for longer than a few weeks at a time. At first, Merlin thinks that it’s only because of his magic.

The Great Purge has been over with for years now, but those accused of sorcery are still rounded up and executed without even a trial. Him and his mother stay far away from Camelot, but other kingdoms have adopted similar policies throughout the years, and even those who haven’t aren’t the safest place for sorcerers to live.

The kingdoms who don’t outright ban magic have found ways of controlling those who use it, and Merlin is still a child but he knows for certain that he neither wants to die, or become some strange king’s magical slave.

The winds whisper their approval at these thoughts. _We bow to no one,_ they say to him, _And as our Kin, you bow to no one either._ His mother doesn’t have magic, and he doesn’t know who his father is, but something about what the winds say ring true and there is never any doubt in his mind that he is Kin to the Winds.

 _Yes,_ he replies, _I am Kin to the Winds and I don’t bow to anyone._ Merlin can feel how pleased the winds are when he says this, and they whip around him in an excited flurry. Across the clearing they’re making camp in for the night, his mother looks up with worried eyes. “Merlin,” she questions, “Are you doing that?”

“I’m not.” He says truthfully, even as he feels his eyes burn with golden magic, and the winds continue to dance around him. His mother purses her lips, obviously thinking he’s lying, but doesn’t say anything else and goes back to setting up their tent.

Sighing, Merlin turns back towards the fire he’s supposed to be building. He stacks a few more twigs onto the pile he’d started, waving his hand over them and asking them to catch fire. They do, and within a few moments he has a decent flame going, undisturbed by the wind that still flutters around him.

“Merlin,” his mother sighs, “You need to be more careful.” She ties the last rope off on their tent, before walking over and sitting next to him. The winds die down as she wraps her arm around him and pulls him into a hug. “One day, someone will see you, and then you’ll be in big trouble. I can’t…” she trails off, unable or unwilling to finish her sentence. It doesn’t matter, Merlin is pretty sure he knows what she was going to say anyways.

 _We’ll protect you, Kin of Ours,_ the winds say to him, and Merlin believes them. The Winds will make sure that he’s safe. And anyways, he has no plans of being seen doing magic by any other person besides his mother. Still, he wraps his arm around his mother’s back and mutters a soft apology into her arm. 

\---

It isn’t until his thirteenth winter that Merlin realizes the laws against magic are only part of the reason him and his mother live out in the wilderness and never stay in one place for longer than a few weeks.

They’re heading south when it happens. They’d spent the summer and fall months travelling in the north, passing through Deira, Northumbria, and even going as far as Bernicia. The winter months are fast approaching though, and his mother says that it’s time to start making their way back south, towards Nemeth or perhaps Kent.

They’re making good time, and the forest they’re walking through is practically _singing_ with magic. Merlin feels it in every breath that he takes, and even the winds seem to feel it – they’re extra playful, whipping around him and bringing beautiful music from far-off places right to his ear.

They’ve cut a path through Mercia, and are getting close to the Escetir border when his mother suddenly stops. She looks around quickly, eyes darting rapidly, and Merlin sees worry in her face. The wind flutters questioningly around his head curious as to why they’ve stopped, the sweet voices carried in its currents slowly petering down to a gentle whisper.

“...Mother?” He asks, coming to stand beside her and not sure what to make of her abrupt drop in mood. Merlin is aware that she can’t feel the magic that saturates the very ground they’re walking on, and that she also can’t hear the music brought by the wind, but she had been rather relaxed and seeming to enjoy the crisp weather up until a minute ago.

She reaches out suddenly and grabs his arm, “Merlin, you need to run.”

Startled, Merlin jerks his arm back. “What?”

His mother turns to look him in the eyes, and Merlin is shocked by the fear he sees. “Listen to me Merlin, you have to get out of here. There’s something… something is coming for you. It’s something that I should have told you about before now, and I regret that I haven’t, but you need to go _now.”_

Despite the fact that he doesn’t really understand what’s going on, Merlin takes a deep breath to center himself. He trusts his mother, and if she says he needs to run, then he will.

“Where should I go?” Merlin suddenly notices how quiet the forest has gotten around them. There are no birds chirping, and despite the wind that ruffles his hair, no leaves are shaking in the trees.

“It doesn’t matter,” his mother says, sounding desperate, “You just need to run and get as far away from here as possible.” She hesitates a moment before continuing, “If we can’t find each other within the week, we’ll meet in south Escetir, near the Swan Lakes. You remember them?”

Merlin nods. They’d visited the Swan Lakes two summers ago. He remembers how to get to them. Mostly. He doesn’t want his mother to worry though, so he puts that thought aside and asks, “But what about you?” 

His mother smiles softly at him. “I’ll be fine, love. What’s coming is only interested in finding you. It won’t bother me.”

His mother is barely finished speaking when all of a sudden, a terrible, oppressive force erupts around him. Startled, Merlin lets out a scream, and before he is even aware of what he’s doing, he’s running, running, _running,_ and he doesn’t stop.

The force follows him though, licking at his heels, and he can feel its malicious enjoyment of his fear. If this _thing,_ whatever it is, catches him, Merlin is sure that it will kill him.

 _I don’t want to die,_ he thinks, _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!_ He repeats that over and over in his head like a mantra, like if he says it enough times then it will just come true. 

Maybe it would. That’s basically how his magic worked – he willed something to happen, and it did. For some reason though, his magic seemed oddly subdued, and he has to consciously think about drawing on it.

He focuses his magic on his legs, using it to go faster. For a moment, that seems to work. He puts on a burst of speed, and feels the evil presence start to fall behind him. Encouraged, Merlin shoves more magic at his legs in an effort to go even faster.

That turns out to be a huge mistake though, as the faster he goes, the clumsier he gets, and he suddenly finds himself tumbling to the ground in a heap. His left ankle is throbbing with pain, and when he tries to stand, it gives out on him. 

_Shit,_ he thinks, _shit, shit, shit, shit…!_ He’s stuck. He’s stuck, and the oppressive force is coming, he can _feel it,_ and it’s going _to kill him,_ and–

It slams into him with the force of a rockslide, stealing his breath and knocking him down. He’s choking. He can’t breathe. This thing is going to kill him, and for some reason his magic is slipping out of his grasp. It cowers deep in his belly, refusing to listen to his commands. Black spots start appearing in his vision, and he claws uselessly at his neck, but there’s nothing to even _grab_ at there, and, _and–_

 _Don’t worry Kin of Ours, we’ll protect you,_ and suddenly, he is whisked off the ground and straight up into the sky. As the world disappears beneath his feet, Merlin screams, and he doesn’t stop screaming, even when he stops going up and starts going forward, the winds propelling him through the air at breakneck speeds.

He must pass out at one point, because the next thing Merlin’s aware of is hard dirt beneath his face. Groggily, he opens his eyes and pushes himself into a sitting position. He’s still in the forest, but it feels...different. Bad different.

The air feels too thin, and tastes stale on his tongue. The greens of the trees are less vibrant. A rabbit is snuffling the ground a few feet to his right, and even _that_ feels different. Its presence feels weak and frayed around the edges, almost like it’s not really there. _Where was he?_

 _The Dying Lands,_ the winds tell him, _we had to carry you to the Dying Lands to escape. The Wild One cannot come here._

 _The Wild One? Um, the Dying Lands?_ Merlin questions, steadily climbing to his feet. Did they perhaps mean the Perilous Lands? That was pretty far from where him and his mother had been, but Merlin supposed it wasn’t impossible for the winds to carry him such a distance. He’s not sure how long he was out either. It could’ve been a few minutes, or a few days. There’s no telling how far the wind could take him given enough time.

His left ankle still hurts, but it seemed to have healed a bit in the time he’s been knocked out. It pulses angrily when he steps on it, but it holds his weight.

 _Yes, the Wild One cannot follow us here,_ the winds explain, caressing his face and gently urging him forwards, _the Dying Lands have been cursed – magic is weakened here. Can you not feel it in the air?_

 _I can,_ he says, slowly limping in the direction the winds are urging him to go. His foot was still aching, but he keeps walking anyways. It wouldn’t be good to stay in one spot for too long, even though he did trust that whoever this ‘Wild One’ was couldn’t find him here. _Who is the Wild One though?_

That turns out to be a difficult thing for the winds to answer though. They flutter anxiously around him, _the Wild One,_ they repeat, _they who roam the lands and seas and skies, bringer of death and life._

Merlin has never heard of someone like that, and he has no idea why they’d be after him anyways. He was just a kid, after all, one who didn’t have a father or a last name. He was a nobody.

Picking up on his thoughts, the winds tug a little at his hair, _you are Kin of the Winds who bow to nothing and no one. You are not Nobody. Do not think such madness._

Cheered by the kind words, Merlin smiles softly to himself. Maybe he doesn’t have a father or a last name, but he _does_ have the winds. Them and his mother are all he really needs.

Smile slipping off his face, Merlin stops abruptly. _His mother._ She had told him to run, but how could he have just left her there? When that presence had slammed into him, his mind had gone completely blank with primal fear, and there hadn’t been a single thought in his head besides getting as far away as possible.

Now though, he realizes that he’d left his mother to fend for herself, and _how_ could he do that?

Guilt eats at him, and he can feel wetness start to prick at his eyes. Gods, what was he supposed to do now? Panicking, Merlin’s mind flies, trying to think of anything he could do. What had his mother said, right before he’d taken off? _‘We’ll meet at the Swan Lakes, in Escetir.’_

Some relief floods him as he remembers this, and he stretches out his awareness to the world around him, trying to pinpoint how far away he is from the Swan Lakes, and what direction he has to go.

The air is dry and stale though, and no matter how hard Merlin concentrates he can’t really get a good sense of where he is. It vaguely feels like he needs to be going south-east, but he’s not sure and it’s starting to frustrate him. The only comforting thing is that it seems the winds had already been pointing him in that direction.

A thought crosses his mind then. _Winds,_ he asks tentatively, _can you find my mother?_

The Winds don’t answer, and Merlin sighs and starts walking again. It was a long shot to ask, but at least he knows for sure now. The Winds might be his kin, but they’ve never shown an interest in anyone or anything other than himself. For the most part, they acted like Merlin was the only living thing in the world, and didn’t interact with anything else – including his mother, whom he was always with.

Merlin keeps walking in silence, foot throbbing. If the Winds could not help him, then he would just have to trust that his sense of direction was good, and make his way to the Swan Lakes himself. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get there, but it was the only connection he had to finding his mother right now, so he had to go.

The Winds stay silent as he walks, fluttering anxiously around his head and steering him gently in the right direction when his own senses become muddled and he can’t tell where he’s supposed to go. His foot aches less as the day goes on, but still hurts enough that he still limps and must take frequent breaks.

Despite this, Merlin keeps walking until the sky starts to turn red and orange, and he is satisfied with his progress for the day. He finally decides to stop when his foot can’t take anymore walking, and settles down in the roots of a big tree, taking out some of the rations he keeps tucked into his pockets and eating quickly.

His mother had carried most of their heavier supplies (like their tent, cooking utensils, and the few books and writing tools they owned), but he had carried a small portion of provisions. As he finishes his small meal, Merlin can’t help but wonder if this was the reason why.

Had his mother been expecting that–that deadly _force_ to come after him? It had sounded like it, when she’d been telling him to run. But, _why?_ What could such a demonic force want with someone like him? He was just a kid, traveling the lands with his mother. There wasn’t anything special about that.

Well...there was one thing. Merlin knew it wasn’t normal to be able to communicate with the Winds. His mother couldn’t, and no one they’d ever come across in their travels could either. And he’d confirmed it earlier – the Winds didn’t particularly care or think about anyone besides him. Was this perhaps why he’d been targeted by that terrible presence?

Extending his senses, he calls for the Winds in order to ask them, but they flitter away and don’t respond. Sighing, Merlin decides to leave it for now. He’s tired, in pain, and really missing his mother. He didn’t have the energy to worry about this right now.

Plus, his mother had said she would explain everything once they met back up. He would just have to be patient and wait until they found each other again.

With that thought in mind, Merlin drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

\---

When he wakes up the next morning, there are people standing over him, completely silent. With a scream, Merlin jerks up and backwards, trying to get away, and slams his head into the tree he’d been resting against. 

“Be calm, Emrys.” One of them says, stepping forward a bit, “We will not hurt you.”

 _Yeah right,_ he thinks, a bit dazed from hitting his head. Focusing, he counts seven different people standing around him, all adults and mostly older. The one who’d spoken was an elderly woman wearing a long, green traveling cloak. Her hair was a bright silver, and her face was warm and kind, but Merlin is not fooled.

They were all staring at him with a sort of predatory gleam in their eyes, and the air around them buzzed with excited energy. Plus, what had this lady called him? Emrys? Merlin had no idea who that was. They were obviously mistaking him for someone else.

“My name isn’t Emrys,” he manages to get out, eyeing the group of adults warily, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” With that, he pushes away from the tree and attempts to walk through them.

Unfortunately, his ankle gives out before he can take more than a few steps, and the elderly woman reaches out to catch him. “Careful Emrys, you’re injured.” Despite her age, the woman’s grip is like iron.

“My name _isn’t Emrys,”_ he says, more forcefully this time, as he tries to yank himself from the old woman’s grasp. She holds tight though, and he finds himself being dragged along as she speaks.

“Now, now,” she says, “We aren’t going to hurt you, dear Emrys. We wish to help you find your way.” The six other cloaked figures fall into step around them, forming a loose circle as they walk. “You’ve been lost a long time.”

Which is a delusional statement to make, because he’s hardly been separated from his mother twenty-four hours yet, and anyways, he’s hardly lost. He knows exactly where he’s going, and has his senses and the Winds to guide him if he _does_ happen to get lost.

“I’m not lost,” he says firmly, and then wills her to _let him go._ Familiar warmth flickers weakly within his gut, and then suddenly, pain like he’s never felt before shoots through his head. He falls to the ground with a strangled yelp, tearing at his hair until the pain subsides into a dull ache.

 _What the hell was that._ He thinks, only belatedly directing it as a question towards the Winds. He only gets the vague impression of panic in return, but that’s just as likely to be coming from him as it is the Winds.

The old woman still has a hold of his arm, and kneels down in front of him. Her expression is one of pure concern, but Merlin doesn’t buy it for a second. Her eyes are cold, and the energy dancing around her has transformed into something darkly satisfied. Whatever is wrong with him, he has no doubt that these strange people are behind it. 

“Oh Emrys,” she coos, “See? You’ve been injured. We will take you back to our camp, and you’ll stay with us until you’re fully healed. We will not let any more harm come to you.”

Snarling and really starting to panic, Merlin tries to rip himself free from the woman, but her grip stays strong and golden flecks spark behind her eyes. She was using magic.

His panic grows tenfold once he realizes that, but no matter how hard he yanks at his arm, or how desperately he reaches for his magic, nothing seems to work. The woman continues to pull him through the forest, her silent companions forming a loose circle around them.

“We’ve been waiting for you for many years, Emrys.” The woman says eventually, once Merlin has finally stopped struggling. His headache pulses angirly with each attempt he makes, and his foot still aches enough that he probably wouldn’t be able to run even if he _was_ able to free himself from her grasp.

“My name isn’t Emrys.” He mumbles frustratedly, “It’s Merlin.”

“Your mortal name, perhaps, but your prophesied name is Emrys.” The woman responds. The energy he now recognizes as magic buzzes excitedly around her and her six companions when she says that. The Winds prickle nervously at his neck, and although he can’t really hear their voices right now, he understands the warning well enough and stays silent.

“My name is Eleta,” she continues, “We are part of a faction of Druids who’ve foreseen the future of these lands. You’ve been chosen for a great destiny, Emrys, and we’ve been chosen to help guide you along your path.”

And hearing that is the last straw. Merlin’s been separated from his mother by some killer _presence,_ injured his foot and almost died, and has now been picked up by a group of delusional Druids who’ve somehow restricted his magic and think he’s some guy named ‘Emrys’ who’s been chosen by destiny. What a load of bull.

His ankle protests, but Merlin digs his feet into the ground hard enough to get them to stop. “Enough.” He says, and feels his magic surge to crackle menacingly beneath his skin. The headache this brings is dull and throbbing, but Merlin pushes the pain away and stares the woman – Eleta, she said her name was – down. Her companions have all backed away from him, hands half-raised in a defensive position while they stare warily between the two of them. 

“My name is _Merlin.”_ He tells her sternly, “Kin to the Winds, and son of Hunith. I serve no master but myself, and I have no interest in learning about whatever you think my so-called destiny is. Now step aside and _let me go.”_

Despite the fact that their faces remain impassive, the magic energy around the Druids pulses nervously at his words. The nervousness does not last for long though, before Eleta takes a single step backwards and says, “It seems you will need more help than we initially realized, Emrys.”

She raises her hand then, and Merlin prepares to deflect whatever magic she throws at him. He’s finally been able to wrestle his own magic back under some semblance of control, and the voices of the Winds have started to become clear to him again.

Unfortunately, the throbbing in his head triples in intensity as Eleta’s hand goes up. Her mouth moves, forming the words of some unknown type of spell, but he can’t hear whatever it is. Pain like he’s never felt before sears through his head, and then the world goes dark.

\---

When he wakes, Merlin is laying on top of a soft cot in a spacious tent. 

The first thing he notices is that it’s completely silent. Which is _extremely wrong_ because even if his mother hadn’t been speaking, or the animals of the forest had been silent, the Winds were always whispering things into his ears. Now though, the Winds don’t say anything at all. 

His other senses seem to have dulled as well. The colors around him were muted and washed out, and there was a persistent ache in his chest where his magic was normally centered. He can’t quite seem to keep his balance when he stands up, either. 

With a groan, he pulls himself up and looks around the tent. Besides the cot he’s laying on, there isn’t much else. A large wooden desk sits opposite him, empty save for a single brown book laying delicately in the center of it. 

Scowling, Merlin swings his feet over the edge of the bed and tests his injured foot. A small twinge of pain spasms up his ankle as he stands, but it’s more like a bruise than the searing pain from before. With a nod to himself, he swiftly makes his way over to the tent opening and peaks out. 

Other tents are dotted around the campsite in clusters, and people of all ages are busy bustling around. They all wear clothing similar to what Eleta and her companions had on – earth-colored tunics or dresses, and long flowing cloaks somewhere between brown and green.

He’s unguarded, and the weak morning light filtering through the campsite reveals this tent is relatively secluded and not that far away from the treeline. Slipping outside, he tries his best to blend in as he nonchalantly saunters towards his goal.

He only makes it a few steps though, before he hears, “Ah, Emrys, you’ve awakened.” 

_Damn it._ Stopping, he turns around and comes face to face with the old woman. She is flanked by two green-cloaked guards, and looks down on him with a carefully blank expression. Magic flitters around the three of them, scraping up against his demolished senses. Stubbornly, he refuses to say anything.

Sighing, she steps forwards and places her hand on his shoulder. Her grip is like steel, and he can feel the slimy presence of her magic seeping out of her skin. “In time, young Emrys, you will come to understand your place in this world, and why we were called to come to your aid. For now though, I understand things may be a little confusing for you so take your time adjusting.”

Rage bubbles up within him at her words, and snarling, Merlin snaps back, “My place in the world is not for you to decide. I am Kin to the Winds, and my only master is myself!” His magic surges in response to his distress, bubbling up from deep within his chest, slithering into his fingertips, and then… _”Grk!”_ Control slips from his grasp, and his magic seems to evaporate from his body. 

It leaves him feeling sick and queasy, and he falls to his knees and gags at the sudden loss.

“No one can escape their destiny, young Emrys, and you would do well to remember that.” Eleta says to him, “That is the first rule one must always remember when devoting yourself to the Old Religion, as well as the most important.”

Baring his teeth at her, Merlin tries to struggle to his feet, but his legs are too wobbly and he can’t seem to support his weight. “I-I’m not a p-part of the Old Religion.” He stutters out between great, gulping breaths. 

Eleta observes him cooly for a moment, before slowly bending so that she’s kneeling in front of him. Even through his disorientation, Merlin wonders how such an old woman appeared so nimble. The thought leaves him soon enough though, when she reaches out and grabs a hold of his chin, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

“You practice magic, do you not?” She asks, deceptively calm.

“No.” He snarls back, because it’s _true._ He’s never had to practice his magic. It’s simply always been a part of him, and has always responded to his will. Though her face remains blank, irritation flashes through Eleta’s magic, and Merlin winces a bit at the ugly feeling.

“Yes,” she insists firmly, “No matter who you are, all of our magics stem from the Old Religion. You are no exception to this – you’re subject to our rules and prophecies, just as anyone else is.”

Letting out another frustrated growl, Merlin jerks his head back out of Eleta’s strong grip. He gets the feeling that she let it happen though, seeing as he hadn’t been able to break her hold before. 

Standing slowly, he watches as she casually dusts dirt from her skirts, seemingly no longer paying him any mind. “Heimlyr,” she says, addressing the Druid to her left, “See to it Emrys is brought the proper educational material. He has much to learn.”

\---

Merlin is dragged back to the tent he’d awoken in. He’s corralled gently in and left alone, with only the cot and the desk and the little brown book. The Druid named Heimlyr gestures at it before he exits, stating that he’ll be back with more material in the afternoon, but that Merlin should start with that one. 

Which is a laughable thing to say, because Merlin does not plan to stick around long enough to get through a single page of whatever garbage these people want to force on him. 

Resolve hardened, he limps back over towards the cot and collapses onto it. His ankle had started throbbing again on the trip back, and he rubs at it absentmindedly as he closes his eyes and pictures what he’d seen of the camp.

It hadn’t seemed like the tents had been set up in any sort of pattern. Some were here, some were there, and none of them were the same size or shape. They were all dyed in varying shades of warm green and earthy brown though. It hadn’t looked like his tent was being guarded, but he’d been caught so fast that someone had to be watching out for him. 

Letting out a frustrated huff, Merlin flops backwards and tries not to cry. What was he going to do? Who were these stupid people? _Winds, can you hear me? How do I get out of here?_

But the winds don’t respond, and he only gets the vaguest impression of a breeze fluttering around his head, weak enough that it could just be his imagination. 

\---

Later, when the sun is well on it’s way to setting and the stars are just starting to become visible in the twinkling dusk of the sky, Merlin slips the green cloak he’s been gifted over his shoulders and slips out the bankside of his tent.

He’s spent the day holed up there, being visited by what almost seems like every Druid in the camp. They all call him ‘Emrys’ and bow at his feet, praising a dozen gods he doesn’t even believe in for returning him safely. 

It’s stupid and he hates it. His name is Merlin, not Emrys, and he doesn’t even _know_ any of these people! 

Like before, he doesn’t even make it to the first tree before Eleta is stepping out of the shadows, three younger Druids in tow. “Where do you think you’re going, dear Emrys?” She asks, steel in her voice.

“I’m leaving.” He replies stubbornly, staring her down in the dying light. “You can’t stop me.”

The old woman simply raises an eyebrow, gesturing to the three Druids surrounding them. 

He fights it every step of the way, but his magic still feels like a giant bruise within his chest, and in the end he’s unceremoniously dumped back inside the tent. Druids surround the tent like prison bars the entire night. 

\---

He tries again the next morning, slipping free when the cool morning mist is still hanging heavy around the camp.

He makes three trees past the treeline, before a hand lands on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

They march him back to camp, and he’s stuck inside his tent for half the day. 

\---

Three days after he’s been taken to the Druid camp, he’s reunited with his mother.

“Merlin!” She cries when she sees him, escorted along by a handful of what he’s come to recognize as Druid-guards.

“Mom!” He yells back, abandoning the thick text he’d been given to memorize next to the fire-pit and rushing towards her. ‘Educational material’ had turned out to be a combination of those old books Heimlyr had brought to him, in addition to sitting around and listening to the Druid elders tell countless stories about their histories and beliefs. 

It was incredibly boring, but there isn’t much else he can do but go along with it. It was also hard to escape from, considering he was a literal captive audience and couldn’t get away from their endless storytelling. 

He can feel tears prickling at his eyes, and throws his arms around her as soon as he’s close enough, muffling his sniffles in her dress.

“Oh, Merlin,” she says, “I was so worried. I thought- I thought-”

 _“Mom,”_ he sobs, unable to really say or think of anything else beyond the crushing relief he feels at being reunited with her. It had only been a few days, but he’d thought– that horrible presence! And his ankle, and these stupid Druids, and no matter how many times he’d tried to run off they always seemed to catch him.

“Alright, honorable Emrys,” one of the elders sitting around with him says in a falsely-sweet voice, “That’s enough of that. Time to get back to your studies. Now, back to what I was saying before we were interrupted. The next prophecy we will be discussing is that of the sorcerer Cornelius Sigan…”

Begrudgingly, he sits up enough to pretend like he’s paying attention. He’s learned from experience that outwardly ignoring the elders when they’re speaking just gets him in trouble, and trouble isn’t something he wants to deal with right now. Not when his mother is sitting next to him, pressed against his side. Not when the Druid-guards are eyeballing them like they’re preparing to drag her away.

Merlin would not allow that. Not when they’d only just been reunited. He bares his teeth at the Druids, daring them to get any closer. They wisely keep their distance.

\---

While the Druids allow his mother to sit with him during his study lessons, they don’t let her join in on the practical lessons they force him to do.

“Now Emrys,” a younger Druid named Aldanil calls out gently, twisting her long, dark hair behind her ear. “You must focus! Your magic is wild and unrestrained, with no purpose or meaning. To give it purpose, you must guide it into the appropriate spell, and cast it out into the earth.”

Grumbling, Merlin stubbornly turns his back on her. _Hello? Winds? Can you hear me?_

But there is no response. There is not even a familiar breeze sent to ruffle his hair. Whatever Eleta and the other Druids had done to him in the forest before he’d woken up, it had slowly choked his connection to the winds, until he could no longer hear their voices. 

“Come now, don’t be like that!” Aldanil teases. “Now let’s try again. _Blóstmá.”_

The sharp prickle of her magic tingles down his spine, and he’s barely able to muffle his gasp. Whipping around, he instinctively reaches towards his own magic, drawing it up to the surface of his skin and wrapping it around himself like a protective cloak.

Or, at least he _tries_ to. Pain resonates through his skull the moment he tries to draw his magic to the surface, and he falls to his knees with a queasy feeling in his stomach. 

Sighing, Aldanil walks forwards and drops to kneel in front of him. Shining white flowers follow her steps, blooming to life in a circle around the two of them. “Oh Emrys,” she coos, reaching out to caress his face, “Magic must be used in spells, not in reactionary wildness! Wild magic is dangerous, and only leads to pain and death.” 

And that is– it’s– that’s just _stupid!_ And not even true!

Baring his teeth, Merlin jerks his head back. “What does that even mean?!”

He’s never needed spells, not once in his entire life. Magic had always come so natural for him, sparking to life and doing whatever he willed it to. It had never been dangerous, and for that matter, he wouldn’t consider anything he’s done in the past _wild magic_ in the first place. Whatever that even meant. These Druids were just full of themselves. And stupid, if they thought the only way to do magic was with words. 

Leaning back on her heels, Aldanil gives him a pitying look. “There is a balance in the world that must be maintained,” she states, “And in order to preserve that balance, us sorcerers must follow the rules of magic, which are woven into all the spells we use. You are not exempt from these rules, Emrys, just because you find it easier than most to break them.” 

Which is still a load of bull, in Merlin’s opinion. After all, these Druids couldn’t even get his name right, what did they know about how his magic worked?

He says as much to Aldanil, and gets another pitying look. “I think that’s enough practice for today,” she says, pulling him to his feet. “I’m sure the elders would love to have you sit and listen to their stories for an extra hour today.” 

\---

Merlin’s days go on like this, stuck in an endless loop. He’s awoken at dawn, usually by Aldanil, but sometimes by various other Druids, and carted off towards the treeline and forced into memorizing a bunch of different useless spells. 

They don’t do much for him, even if he actually puts some effort behind them. Blóstmá gives him a sickly looking vine at best, while a spell meant to light a campfire will only produce warm embers. He can’t help but compare these dumb spells to the magic he’d been able to perform before. 

Fruit had bloomed directly into his hand whenever he’d wanted it, and fire had hardly taken a thought. He can tell his inability to cast proper spells is frustrating the Druids, which is the only positive in this whole shit situation. 

After spellwork, he’s taken back into camp and made to listen to the elders as they drone on endlessly about this or that or what once was or what will be. 

None of it is the least bit interesting, not even the history bits. It _could_ be interesting, but according to the Druids, everything that’s ever happened is leading up to some sort of great restoration of magic, that will revitalize the world and bring balance to the lands. 

Consequently, any action they’ve ever taken is justified by this. Merlin wonders how they’ve fit kidnapping _him_ into their grand plan. 

The only good thing about old-people story time is that his mother is allowed to take a break from helping around camp to come sit with him. He’s not entirely sure what she’s drafted into doing when she’s not sitting with him, but he’s seen her stuck around camp with the same group of Druids, performing a bunch of random little tasks. 

After he’s done being talked at by the elders, he’s stuck doing much of the same. A group of young boys around his age come and pick him up every day around noon, bringing him a bland lunch, and then carting him off to do anything from collecting firewood to kneading bread. 

Later, he’s brought back to his tent in the evenings with dinner, and given a multitude of different books and a handful of candles. In the morning, the cycle begins all over again. 

Life sucks.

\---

After what Merlin estimates to be about a month of captivity with the Druids, he is woken abruptly in the middle of the night by his mother’s hand on his mouth. “Shhh,” she hushes in the dark, “Quickly, and stay quiet.”

Unlike all the other times Merlin has tried to escape, they miraculously make it past the first few trees without being spotted. And then they keep going, and going, and going, and Merlin’s heartbeat thumps painfully loud in his ears, and they keep passing trees and more trees and even more trees, until he’s exhausted and cold and the sun is just starting to peak over the horizon. 

By some miracle they make it to a long stretch of dirt road just as the sun is starting to peak over the horizon. It’s only when the sun is shining bright in the sky that his mother allows them to stop for a break. 

Merlin collapses against the side of a tree. His eyes are burning with exhaustion, and his feet ache like they’ve never ached before. He’s starving and in pain and his magic is still stuck behind some sort of nasty barrier that _won’t let him use it_ but he’s never felt as good as he does in that moment. 

He was free. _They were free._ After weeks of being stuck with a bunch of crazy Druids who thought he was some guy named Emrys, they were finally free. Tears of pure euphoria well up in his eyes, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. 

He isn’t sure how long he lays there, pressed up against one of the trees along the side of the road, but eventually his mother rouses him and they start marching again. He has no idea where they are (another side effect of whatever the Druids had done to him) but his mother is walking with a purpose and he’s too tired to ask any questions.

They walk, and walk, and walk, stopping for the bare minimum, and it leaves Merlin in a daze. Somehow they don’t starve, and somehow the Druids don’t find them. 

Eventually, they end up in a small, unassuming village named Ealdor. It’s located along the outskirts of the Escetir-Camelot border. It’s an utterly terrible place and Merlin hates it. 

The air is stale, and the beautiful symphony of sounds heard in a healthy forest are muffled and sickly sounding, if not outright gone.

The multitude of bindings that the Druids had placed on him don’t help, either. His magic is weakened, his connection with the land dampened. It hurts to be cut off from his magic like that. It hurts like he’s missing a limb, and it feels as though he’s gone blind. 

For some reason, his mother decides they’re going to live here. Permanently. 

When they first arrive, they stay with a woman named Reya and her young son named Will. Will is about Merlin’s age, and wears a perpetual scowl on his face. He’s also never home during the day, opting to run around harassing the chickens and tossing sticks at the nearby river instead. 

Merlin doesn’t much care what he does. He’s spent the entire first part of his life with just his mother around, only to be thrust into a spotlight around a bunch of Druids with no break for an entire month. He’ll take any amount of solitude he can get. 

Eventually though, his mother manages to work something out with whoever counts as in-charge in Ealdor, and they move into a small little one room hut on the outskirts of the town. They acquire a few chickens, a couple of basic hand-me-down tools, and for the most part the rest of the village leaves them alone. 

Winter has blanketed the land in a thick layer of snow. Their little hut offers only a small amount of protection, and they spend most of their days huddled around the open hearth, doing their best to keep the fire going. 

Merlin has never been this cold before. He’s never needed to be this cold before, because he’s always been able to light a warm fire whenever one was needed with just his mind. When he thinks of spending the rest of his life like this...Well, the rest of his life has never felt so hopeless. 

\---

They’ve been living in Ealdor for nearly a year and a half, when suddenly the rest of Merlin’s life doesn’t look so terrible anymore. 

He’s out chopping firewood, a used but sturdy axe in his hands. It’s hard work, and it sucks, and there isn’t a day that goes by that Merlin doesn’t wish he had his magic back. It would make splitting these logs so much easier and faster. It would make doing _anything_ easier and faster. 

Scowling, Merlin wipes the sweat from his brow and glares down at the thick logs surrounding him. To his surprise, something warm and familiar sparks to life within his chest, and in the next second, all of the logs around him stand up straight and with a loud _crack!_ split themselves into even sections.

“Merlin, are you– Oh!” His mother comes running outside the second she hears the crack, looking around at the split logs with a startled expression. “Did you…?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin splitting his face, “It’s back!”

Except, his magic isn’t back. Not really, at least. Spells still don’t work for him, but they never did in the first place so Merlin isn’t too upset about that. He still can’t hear the winds voices - which _is_ upsetting - and willing his magic to do things doesn’t work, but sometimes his magic will suddenly just bubble up and do something. 

Like split logs. Or straighten a bent fence-post. Or grow an apple from a nearby tree that is most certainly not an apple tree. 

About a month after the firewood incident, he’s out with the chickens. It’s chilly, and a cool autumn breeze ruffles through his hair.

It hurts like it always does, when he feels his old friend but can’t hear them. Closing his eyes, he whispers them a silent prayer. _Hello winds, I hope you’re doing well._

_...doing well…_

Startled, Merlin opens his eyes and jerks around. The only living things around him are the chickens, and the next breeze that flutters by almost feels like a caress. 

The more incidents that happen, the more clear it becomes that although his magic is returning, it’s returning _wrong._

Before, the pulse of warmth that lived in his chest resonated with his very heartbeat. Every breath he took was infused with magic, and it followed his will like a compass. 

Now - when he can even get it to work for him - it’s like wrestling a toddler. Sometimes it does what he wants, but mostly it doesn’t. He’ll lean down to start a fire, and a miniature rain cloud will form over his logs. Or he’ll head out into the forest surrounding their home to hunt a rabbit, but lose his sense of direction entirely and end up an entire day’s walk away from home.

But, even if his magic is acting with a mind of its own, it’s still _back._ Which in Merlin’s mind, is cause for celebration. To his mother though, it’s a constant worry that he’ll be caught and turned in.

To Cenred in Escetir or to Uther in Camelot, it doesn’t matter. Neither kingdom would bode well for Merlin’s survival. He would be executed in one, or enslaved in the other...at least, until they realized his magic was all messed up, and then they’d execute him too for being useless.

And he knows that. He really does. But that doesn’t change the fact that his entire being aches with the pain of being magicless, and it doesn’t stop him from pushing and poking at his magic, willing it to come back and doing everything in his power to wrestle it back under some semblance of control. 

His persistence just keeps leading to more and more magical incidents though, and every day that passes he can see his mother’s worries growing. Another year passes, and then another, and it’s in that year that the final incident occurs. 

Now that he’s older, Merlin has taken to helping the other villagers out with various tasks. Sometimes he’s mending a roof, sometimes he’s plucking chickens, or sometimes he’s out in the fields with one of the older villagers. Today he’s out in the fields, owned by the crotchety old man Simmons. 

Simmons is a remarkably fit and remarkably sour old man who lived on the opposite side of the village to Merlin and his mother. The man was perpetually in a bad mood and was kind of terrible to be around. He would occasionally call on one or two of the younger able-bodied villagers to come out and patrol his property with him, when he thought there might be someone or something messing with his livestock. 

Merlin’s gotten stuck going out with him the past three times he’s called for help. The last two times Will had volunteered with him, but he’s busy running errands for his mother today, so Merlin is stuck by himself today. 

“Damn animals,” he hears Simmons mumble, as he squats in the grass to examine a clump of dirt. “We’ll catch’em this time. Hurry up, boy!” With far too much speed for a man his age, Simmons springs to his feet and takes off in the direction of the treeline.

He keeps his eyes to the ground, mumbling to himself, and occasionally turning this way or that way as he tracks whatever it is he thinks is freaking out his goats. 

Suppressing a grown, Merlin hefts the crude spear the old man had shoved at him and does his best to keep up. He doesn’t get what the big deal is here. Whatever animal has been prowling around the property, it hasn’t hurt any of Simmons livestock. Just scared them a bit.

The goats screeching is annoying, sure, but Merlin doesn’t think they need to be out here actively antagonizing whatever this is. 

_“Ah ha!”_

_REEEEEE_

Suddenly, Merlin realizes that Simmons has disappeared from view, running further off into the trees. He also realizes that _he’s_ the one with the spear. And that Simmons has just found the animal that’s been prowling around his property. 

Cursing, Merlin breaks into a run, heading vaguely in the direction he thinks Simmons was going. “Simmons!” he calls, “Where’d you go?!”

 _“This way boy, and make it snappy!”_ He hears, thankfully coming from the direction he’s running. 

Putting on a burst of speed, he readjusts his grip on the spear and prays that whatever thing they’ve disturbed won’t kill the old man before he can get to him. A gruff and repetitive snorting sound starts to filter through the trees, and Merlin hears Simmons shout a curse. 

In the next moment, four things happen at once. First, Merlin bursts into a small clearing. Simmons is standing off towards his right, staring down the fattest wild boar Merlin has ever seen. 

Second, the boar, startled by Merlin’s appearance, gives a loud shriek and begins to charge directly at Simmons.

Third, a wave of panic surges through him, because he’s still too far away from Simmons to pass him the spear, and he’s too far away to hit the boar before the boar hits the old man. Instinctively, he reaches for that slowly-growing ball of magic, throwing his free hand out and praying to whatever gods were out there that today of all days his magic would decide to cooperate. 

It does, which leads to the fourth thing, which is that a loud _crack_ resonates through the forest, and right before the boar can reach Simmons a tree tips over and crushes it. 

Once the dust has settled and Simmons realizes that he has not been gored by an angry boar or crushed to death by a tree, he rounds on Merlin like a bloodhound. 

They stare each other down for a moment, before Simmons jerks to life, crossing the clearing and yanking the spear from Merlin’s hands. He grabs Merlin’s shoulder next. “Start walking, boy.” 

And Merlin is too terrified to do anything but listen. The tree had definitely fallen because of his magic. The question was, did Simmons know that? Or did he think he just got lucky?

The answer doesn’t become clear as they walk back to Simmons house, and it becomes less clear when the old man doesn’t let his arm go and continues to march him all the way into the village proper, and then all the way through town to his and his mother’s doorstep. 

“Hunith!” He calls when they get there, still not releasing his arm. “Hunith, your boy is bloody touched in the head!”

His mother comes running out of the house in a flurry. “Simmons,” she greets cautiously, “What’s going on? Is everything ok?”

“No everything is not ok!” Simmons yells back, finally releasing Merlin from his steel-grip. He retreats backwards, eyeballing the spear the old man was still waving around. “Your boy is utterly useless. Couldn’t keep up while we were tracking that blasted boar, and it nearly got me gutted. Now I’ll have you know...”

Later, once the sun has long since set, and after Simmons has finished yelling, Merlin’s mother turns to him and asks, “Have I ever told you about your uncle Gaius?”

**Author's Note:**

> Have some world-building :)


End file.
